


A Bittersweet Tenderness

by plutonianshores



Series: No Sweeter Agony [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, M/M, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:30:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3304148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plutonianshores/pseuds/plutonianshores
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It would be better to put the past behind him, forget what the National Guard had done to him--but Enjolras couldn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bittersweet Tenderness

“Don’t tell me you’re considering holding a meeting tomorrow.”

Enjolras glared at Combeferre. “They did this to discredit me. If I call off the meeting, hide away from my duties, they win.”

“At least promise me we won’t go back to the Musain,” Combeferre sighed.

Although he didn’t want to admit it, the thought of returning to the café made Enjolras sick. “Courfeyrac has offered his rooms temporarily, as has Prouvaire, and Joly. We’ll have no shortages of places to meet until we feel it’s safe to return.” Enjolras did his best to level a stern gaze at Combeferre, although he couldn’t shake the feeling that after what he’d seen, Combeferre would never be intimidated by him again. “Tell me the truth—have I sustained any injuries that would make it dangerous for me to return to life as usual?”

“There are more injuries possible than the physical,” Combeferre said quietly. “But no, you’re not in any physical danger any longer.”

“I’ll see you at Courfeyrac’s tomorrow, then.”

Enjolras didn’t sleep that night. He hadn’t slept well since the attack, but usually he could manage a few hours of fitful rest in between the nightmares. Tonight, thoughts of the meeting kept him awake. Every time he shut his eyes, he saw himself walking through the door to gazes of disgust, or pity (and he wasn’t sure which would be worse). He almost wished he’d asked Combeferre to stay the night, if only to have someone to tell him he was being foolish. By the time the sun rose, his head ached and he was dreading the night.

It went much like he’d expected: an awkward silence when he arrived, followed by even more awkward attempts to go on like nothing had changed. Joly fussed over his bruised nose, Courfeyrac forced jokes that Enjolras wouldn’t have found humorous under the best of circumstances, and Prouvaire stole glances at him every so often, only to look away when Enjolras met his eyes. Despite his best efforts, the meting accomplished nothing (although everyone managed to express their worries for him multiple times). After a few tries at starting a discussion, Enjolras gave in, letting the group fuss over him. As much as he hated to admit it, there was something comforting about their concern.

Feuilly pulled him aside during a lull in the conversation. “Have you been sleeping?”

“No less than before.” Enjolras was certain that the shadows under his eyes showed the truth of matters, but he hoped Feuilly would accept the fiction.

His frown suggested that he wouldn’t, and his next words confirmed the assumption. “It’s difficult. You try to forget, but it’s always there. Is it worse at night, for you?” The implication hung under Feuilly’s words: _It was for me_.

Enjolras nodded. He hadn’t expected it to be such a relief, to find someone who knew what to ask.

“It helps me to stop and breathe, and remind myself where I am. And it helped to talk, when I felt ready. Please tell me if you need someone to listen.”

There were so many things Enjolras wanted to say. _Thank you for refusing to leave me be,_ maybe. _I’m so sorry that this happened to you, but I’m glad I’m not alone_ , or _I hope, for both our sakes, that you stopped seeing their faces every time you shut your eyes._ He settled for a weak, “Thank you,” praying that Feuilly understood. By the handshake and the sympathetic smile he offered, he did.

The rest of the meeting was a blur of meant-to-be-comforting grasps and deflected concerns. When the time came to leave, Enjolras was more exhausted than he’d ever been after a night of impassioned speechmaking. He still lingered by the door as everyone departed, not sure he was ready to face another night of horrible dreams.

Bahorel didn’t arrive until after most of the others had gone home, only Combeferre and (of course) Courfeyrac remaining. He was bruised and bloodied, and clutching a crumpled blue hat in his fist.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, aiming a smile at Enjolras.

“Any later and I would have left.”

“Let me walk you home then, as an apology.”

Enjolras took his proffered arm, ignoring Combeferre’s concerned glance. Once they were out of earshot, he asked, “What did you have to tell me that the others couldn’t hear?”

“I ran into a certain National Guardsman on my way here.”

The hat Bahorel held in his other hand made more sense after that. “How did you find him?”

“It would have been impossible not to recognize that smug son of a bitch.” Bahorel grinned. “Although he looked much less pleased with himself after a few blows to the face. And I may have asked around about where a certain Officer Gagnon could be found, but that’s no matter.”

The thought of that man lying on the ground beaten to a pulp pleased Enjolras more than he would care to admit. “Is he dead?”

“Not when I left him, although he very well could be by now. He was in a rough part of the city, and I didn’t feel much of an obligation to move him out of the gutter.” Bahorel glanced up. “And here’s where I leave you. Unless you want me to walk you up to your room?”

“That won’t be necessary.” On an impulse, Enjolras wrapped Bahorel in an embrace, mumbling, “Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure.” Once Enjolras released him, Bahorel held out his hand. “I took his hat, if you want to keep it as a memento.”

“It would be better to burn it. Hide the evidence.” It would be better to forget that the man had ever existed, which Enjolras wasn’t sure he could manage even without a wrinkled reminder of him hanging on his wall.

Bahorel nodded. “Have a good night.”

“It will be better, after this.”

It was better. The thought of Gagnon spending his night bleeding in the street quieted the dreams that had haunted him since the attack, at least for that night, and Enjolras found that it was much easier to sleep if he drifted off to thoughts of every single soldier who’d laid a hand on him dying horrible, bloody deaths.

The days went on, Enjolras’s bruises faded, and the rest of the group stopped treating him as if he would shatter under their hesitant glances. He stopped flinching whenever he saw a flash of blue on the street, and Les Amis returned to their work.

Even as things returned to some semblance of normalcy, Enjolras couldn’t forget the horrified expressions on his friends’ faces when they’d seen him disgraced and humiliated. Courfeyrac’s protests caught in his thoughts, _You were drugged_ echoing through his head. Drugged. The thought wouldn’t leave him alone. Maybe understanding what they’d done to him would help, somehow.

It had been Prouvaire who first recognized the drug, he recalled, but the memory of Jehan’s nervous glances was enough to deter Enjolras from asking him for help. Grantaire, then. He hadn’t altered his treatment of Enjolras since the attack, at least, and surely there could be no better man to ask about intoxicants.

Enjolras pulled him aside one night, making sure the rest of the men weren’t there to overhear his query. To his credit, Grantaire didn’t question why Enjolras wanted to know, and only hesitated a moment before beginning his explanation. “It’s meant to make the user pliable, heighten their arousal. It can be very rewarding to take it with a lover you trust, in small amounts, although obviously there are misuses. With the dose they must have given you, I’m surprised you were even able to speak, much less—” He bit his sentence off, apparently thinking Enjolras’s stormy expression directed at him.

“I should have done more.” Enjolras hadn’t meant to say that aloud, and Grantaire looked uncomfortable at the intimacy.

“You couldn’t have. I swear to you, Enjolras, there was nothing you could have done.”

“Well. Thank you for your help. I trust I’ll see you at the next meeting?”

Grantaire gave a terse nod and hurried off into the night. Enjolras was preparing to set off as well when he heard someone call his name.

It took him a moment to recognize the voice, and several more to slow his breathing and remind himself that Combeferre was a friend.

“I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s no matter.” Enjolras tried to smile at him. “I thought I was alone.”

Combeferre slowly stepped closer, offering Enjolras his arm. “I worry about you, walking home by yourself. Allow me to accompany you?”

Enjolras acquiesced with a sigh, taking hold of Combeferre. “I hope you weren’t planning to trap me into a conversation.”

By Combeferre’s expression, that was exactly what he’d intended. “Of course we don’t have to talk, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

“Say your piece, then.” Enjolras knew Combeferre well enough to know that he’d probably regret this, but he also knew Combeferre well enough to know there was no other answer possible.

“You know that none of this was your fault.”

“You heard my conversation with Grantaire.” Combeferre gave a slight nod, and Enjolras struggled to find the words for what he wished to say (something he’d been experiencing all too often lately). “What the soldiers did to me, that was my first...well.”

“You don’t have to let it mean that.” Combeferre extended an arm to Enjolras, undoubtedly intending a comforting embrace, but Enjolras couldn’t stop himself from pulling away.

“I can tell myself whatever I want, but in the end, it did mean something to me.”

Combeferre’s only answer was a stricken expression that nearly made Enjolras regret speaking. They walked in silence for a while, until Enjolras worked up the courage to complete his thought. “I would have had you, given the choice.” He’d thought the statement perfectly clear, but Combeferre’s perplexed expression suggested otherwise. “You know as well as anyone that I haven’t pursued sexual entanglements, but I have thought about it, occasionally. You would have been a courteous lover, I’m sure, and kind. Instead, I was thrown to the wolves.”

“Oh.” Combeferre looked away.

“I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have said that.” It wasn’t fair, to spring that on him. How did he expect Combeferre to respond?

“I wish I’d known.” Certainly not like that, with a look of wistfulness in his eyes and a half-smile on his face. “I would have been happy to help.”

It took a moment for the full meaning of what Combeferre had said to catch up with him. “You would have...you felt the same?”

He smiled sadly. “To think, the two of us spent so much time dealing in hypotheticals when we could have put matters into practice before it was too late.”

“I’m not dead, you know. There’s time still.” Enjolras hoped his own smile appeared far less melancholy. “May I kiss you?”

“I couldn’t impose on you like that.”

“It’s hardly imposing if I ask.” Enjolras had to laugh at Combeferre’s worry. “I swear, it’s no more than I’m comfortable with. Let me have this one thing I’ve chosen for myself. Only if you’re willing, of course.”

“How could I not be willing?”

The kiss they shared was soft and slow and quiet, and when it broke, Enjolras couldn’t bring himself to speak for fear of ruining things.

“We should keep walking,” Combeferre murmured after a few moments. “Unless you wanted to spend the night here?” He gestured at the street, and Enjolras realized just how far they had yet to go.

“I’ve kept you out so late, and even after we reach my flat, you’ll have to keep walking…Perhaps it would be easier if you spent the night.”

Combeferre’s expression grew incredibly serious, and it was all Enjolras could do to hold back a very undignified laugh. “I need you to understand that I would never pressure you into anything—”

“I mean this in the best possible way, Combeferre,” Enjolras said, putting a hand on his arm, “but you are _far_ too careful with me.”

It didn’t take much more to convince Combeferre to stay the night. Enjolras would have liked to credit his persuasive abilities, but the cold night air and the late hour likely played a larger role. In any case, the result was the same. Enjolras lent Combeferre a nightshirt, and shamelessly watched as he undressed. Combeferre returned his glances, grinning as Enjolras stripped down. (Enjolras tried not to think about the last time Combeferre had seen him without his clothes. This would be a better memory, to replace the last.)

They fell asleep lying beside each other, hands clasped together, but as Enjolras found out, Combeferre was a restless sleeper. He woke up a bit after dawn to Combeferre wrapped around him, murmuring something in his sleep.

Enjolras hated himself for it, but his breath still caught in his throat for a moment before he remembered where he was and who was beside him. By the time Combeferre fully woke up, he’d calmed himself down.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“That’s all right.” Enjolras slid closer to him. “We’ve time to sleep.” He couldn’t bring himself to shut his eyes, though, choosing instead to watch Combeferre drift off to sleep. Lying there, watching sunlight filter into the room and listening to Combeferre’s slow, gentle breathing, Enjolras felt safe for the first morning in a while (and, he hoped, for the first morning of many).

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies to the prompter to whom I promised a sequel two and a half months ago! I hope you're still around, and I hope you enjoy this!


End file.
